


Couldn't love you more, you've got a beautiful taste

by zanzibar



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: James Neal's hair, M/M, Minnesota, Paul Martin Confidence Index, smoosh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 12:27:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanzibar/pseuds/zanzibar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James will only admit to himself that the disappointment in losing to the Flyers is completely eclipsed by his fear of losing Paul.</p><p>In which Paulie is stubborn and James is worried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Couldn't love you more, you've got a beautiful taste

**Author's Note:**

> Because I love Paul Martin.
> 
> Title from Bush ~ Glycerine, because the HNIC opening of Pens/Sens the other night was Comedown and wow, do I love that entire album.

James doesn’t go with Paul to the now legendary meeting with Shero. 

James doesn’t go because Paul is stubborn like a mule, or an ox, or some other large, immovable animal-like object. Paul doesn’t have a lot to say on this particular subject, but he says enough to know that he doesn’t want to hear James’ ideas for possible solutions. This, to be clear, is good, because most of James’ solutions are based entirely on stupid cliches like “keeps shooting” and “just do your best” and the ever popular “believe in yourself.”

To be fair none of these things get him punched in the face. And James isn’t entirely sure at this point that he doesn’t deserve a punch in the face.

It’s easy to dismiss their relationship as one of convenience. No one believes that it took almost an entire year for anything romantic to actually happen. But the truth is those first few months after the trade James was so uncomfortable in a Pens jersey, in Paulie’s house, in his own skin, and was trying so hard to find his place amongst the injuries and superstars, that he wouldn’t have seen what was in front of him even if it was six feet tall and waving a sign [Paulie is six feet tall, he is far too politely midwestern to be waving a sign]. 

When he was traded from Dallas, James lived in a cold and impersonal hotel for 4 weeks before he moved in with Paulie. They drove to practice together, ate almost every meal together and somehow Paul managed to be persistently friendly when James was persistently a twenty-something-teenaged-sulking, whiney, pain in the ass.

Paul never called him on it though. And that, clearly, is where they differ. Because hard as he tries, James cannot keep his damn mouth shut. 

This is probably why Paul doesn’t let him come to meet with Shero.

This year has been different in so many ways. James doesn’t sulk anymore, he doesn’t whine, he doesn’t fall asleep on the couch so he doesn’t have to talk to anyone. He has a big contract extension, his own house across the street, and a bed that he’s slept in a total of 3 times since he bought it. He pops bread in the toaster and presses his lips against Paulie’s shoulder while he stands at the stove making eggs, when they drive to the rink Paul’s hand rests heavy on his thigh, fingers curled against his inseam. James can’t help but be happy with all of these developments.

The hockey is a different story though.

Paul has spent the entire season fighting it. Every day, every minute, every time his skates touch the ice he’s fighting demons no one can see but him. He leads the team in ice time and is, at times, completely unnoticeable. Except for when the entirety of the Pittsburgh media is calling him a five-million dollar waste of space. James isn’t sure what hurts Paul more, the criticism or the fact that he doesn’t feel like he’s helping the team. He’s never been the biggest offensive threat on the ice or the biggest hitter, he’s always been consistent, calm, solid as a rock on the blue line. 

It probably doesn’t help that James has the best season he’s ever had. There were rumblings last year - that he wasn’t worth the big ticket trade the Pens made for him. The fancy-stat guys kept preaching patience though, promising an offensive explosion that is hidden somewhere in spreadsheets and Corsi and PDO and a bunch of other stuff that somehow turns hockey into math. 

James believes them and takes the 82 game season as an opportunity to settle into his spot. His off-season training makes him lethal from the top of the circles and after an abbreviated first season on Geno’s line he’s finally developed the crazed sixth-sense necessary to be exactly where Geno wants him, at exactly the right moment, ready to shoot with abandon.

So the year is an unexpected mix of highs and lows. Also the year features unexpected sex, but James isn’t sure it can be classified as unexpected when even the completely clueless [and concussed] captain picks up on he and Paulie’s sex vibes.

The year ends in an implosion of epic, unspeakable proportions.

The Philly series doesn’t deserve to be talked about. Beyond the fact that the one-game suspension for James is probably a good thing since he has to hold himself back from absolutely annihilating Brayden Schenn any time they’re on the ice together because all he can think about is this tragic clusterfuck of a season ending on Paulie’s double-scrambled brain.

James will only admit to himself in the dark, with Paulie breathing deep and even on the pillow next to him, that the disappointment in losing to the Flyers is completely eclipsed by his fear of losing Paul.

The meeting with Shero happens more than a week after exit interviews and locker cleanout day. It’s unexpected because they’ve already done all of that. They’ve closed the door on this season and made way for summer and time at the lake and cottages and obsessive off-season training to banish the pain of how this campaign ended.

Shero interrupts a lazy rainy day not-discussion about schedules and leaving the ‘Burgh. James has plans, and those plans include Paul coming home with him at least for a while, another summer of psycho-training with Scary Gary and getting ready for another season of playing Penguins hockey, the best way they know how.

Paul is far more non-committal about everything choosing instead to shove a hand through his hair and dig through the drawer with all the abandoned videogame detritus looking for the other Wii-mote so they can play rainy day Wii Golf.

He abandons the search when his phone rings and disappears up the stairs after a short conversation to change into jeans and a polo.

James snoops, sees Shero’s name in the recent calls and high-tails it up the stairs after him.

James presents the following ideas while Paul gets dressed, he can go and hang out with Shero’s secretary, he can go and hide in the locker room, he’ll go and stay in the car, he’ll sit in the corner quietly, he’ll bring his phone and play Angry Birds quietly in the corner, he’ll swear under his breath at Angry Birds from a chair in the corner, he’ll wear a tie and pretend he’s Paul’s agent, he’ll wear a coat and tie and pretend to be a lawyer, he’ll take notes, he’ll go instead of Paul.

Paul, unsurprisingly, rejects all of these ideas.

In the end what happens is this, Paul finishes changing clothes, puts some product in his hair, pockets his wallet, grabs his phone and keys and gives James a distracted kiss before walking down the hall, into the garage and driving away.

When Paulie gets home the house is immaculate. Because it’s been a couple of hours and once he starts thinking about what’s happening down at Consol James has a lot of nervous energy. Nervous energy that he expends by pacing in circles for 40 minutes, calling his mom and whining until she hung up on him, followed by ruthless organization of the abandoned videogame paraphernalia drawer, which segued into vacuuming every flat surface in the house, unloading and reloading the dishwasher and scrubbing the counters and stripping all the beds and washing the sheets. 

When he hears Paul pull in the driveway James is seriously considering whether to clean the bathrooms next or organize his entire closet by color and sleeve length. 

“He asked,” Paul’s standing in the middle of the kitchen and James smashes his mouth against his before he can finish the sentence.

“I love you,” James says quickly, “whatever he asked I love you and I want to say that first. Because my mom yelled at me and told me that I don’t tell you enough, because I don’t tell anyone enough, because apparently all I think about is hockey and my hair.”

Paul laughs as he weaves a hand through the short hairs at the base of James’ neck. “I love you too,” he presses their lips together again, gently this time, a familiar slide of lips that reminds James of early morning practices and late night plane rides and lazy afternoon movie watching stretched out on the couch.

James sinks into the kiss and presses Paul against the breakfast bar, jeans rough against his bare legs, Paul’s hands sliding across mesh fabric to cup his hips and pull them more tightly together. 

They stumble up the stairs, too anxious to touch each other to concentrate on anything but touching each other. Paul’s shirt is damp from the afternoon rain and his haphazardly spiked hair tickles James’ neck when he dips to press a line of kisses on the underside of his jaw. They spend what probably amounts to at least 15 brain-scorchingly hot minutes making out against the doorjamb. 

“Shero asked me if I wanted a trade,” James is on all fours, face buried in freshly washed, Downy fresh sheets, concentrating on evening his breathing when Paul drops the bomb. 

“OK,” He turns his head to the side as Paul slides his hands across his hips and this is really, really not the conversation James expected to be having with Paulie buried deep inside him, hips pressed tight against his ass.

“I told him I wanted to stay, to help this team win,” Paul’s voice is remarkable even, barely wavering from his normal timbre even as he steadily slides the head of his dick against James’ prostate.

“Wait. What?” James gives up on breathing easily and draws a sobbing breath instead. He tries to outmuscle Paul so he can flip onto his back, because this is a face to face conversation, not a face to ass conversation.

Paul rests a heavy hand against the center of James’ back and slides all the way back in. “I told him that I didn’t want to go somewhere else and win, that winning would mean more here,” the unspoken “with you,” hangs heavy between them.

James drops his head and draws 2 deep breaths, when Paul hasn’t moved again, he jerks forward and flips onto his back. Paul’s face is red with exertion and self-revelation and James feels so empty it takes his breath away. But just as quickly as he moved the first time he’s shoving Paul back and climbing on top of him to press kisses all over his face. James drops his body to blanket Paul and presses their lips together again.

Somehow James slides their bodies back together and brackets Paulie’s head with his elbows. They find an even rhythm and thrust together until James is dropping his head onto Paul’s shoulder and gasping his name and Paul arches his back one more time before dropping boneless onto the mattress.

“There’s no dirty towels in the laundry basket,” an indeterminate amount of time later Paul wanders into the closet and scratches idly at his chest, “there’s always dirty towels in the laundry basket.”

“They’re all in the washing machine,” James admits, hooking his feet against the foot of the bed and stretching his hands toward the edges. “I had a lot of nervous energy while you were gone,” he shrugs as best he can while he’s laying on his stomach, “I used some of it to do laundry.”

“Your mom really told you that all you worry about is hockey and your hair?” Paul settles for swiping at his chest with a t-shirt, turning it inside out and swiping at James with the other side before crawling back into bed and pulling James against his side.

“There’s the potential I was having a little anxiety attack at the thought you not being here with me any more,” James shrugs and rolls further to his side so their legs slot together, “I might have been a little unreasonable.”

“It’s going to work out,” Paul says, eyes drifting shut, voice filled with more quiet confidence than in almost a year.


End file.
